


Fancy

by jenna_thorn



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Lost
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 19:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike's searching for a cure for Drusilla. Sawyer's just making a living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fancy

The cigarette in his hand burned down faster than it should have, or maybe time speeded up somehow, smoke pulled by the ceiling fans instead of floating lazily, the music too fast, the lights too bright and how did he wind up here, running delivery for a two-bit hood for a couple of hundred dollars and if Harris was two-bit, what the hell did that make him? Unfortunately, he knew full well what that made him. And exactly how he got here in a cheap ass bar in the armpit of nowhere waiting for some English dickwad by the name of Spike. Who was late.

He slammed the rest of the shot and grimaced at the burn. Too many long nights and too many cigarettes on the drive here to the ass-end of nowhere – Redneck-ville Georgia, spitting distance from the Mississippi state line and there was a load and a half of spitting going on already. He was a little too well-dressed for this crowd, hair a little long for the truckers with their worn Wranglers and polished belt buckles, and he tried to look like someone not-to-be-fucked-with when suddenly he wasn't the oddest thing in the dive anymore. And certainly not the girliest.

His sense of self-preservation wasn't enough and the threat of losing $250 wasn't enough and nothing on god's green earth was enough to keep him from laughing, openly and loudly, at the guy walking in with a chip on his shoulder and a leather coat that reached damn near to the ground.

"You gotta be the Englishman, 'cause …" Words failed him and he just grinned again, harder when the guy looked pissed off about it.

A redneck with stubble going grey and a belly gone soft with beer smirked at his buddies and slid the end of his cue under Spike's coat. But Spike just gave a sneer last seen in vinyl and stepped back into the hick, popped his fist up and back and the guy's cap came up like it was shot from a rubber band and landed on the felt of the pool table. Sawyer looked back to Spike to see the jerk behind him slide like Jell-o to the floor, blood running from his nose. Spike licked his knuckles, obscene and loud, a white tomcat sitting on a trashcan and the redneck twitched at his feet. No one moved.

"You are bugfuck," Sawyer hissed.

"No, but I am spoiling for a fight." He turned to face the room and smiled. Sawyer couldn't see his face, but the rest of the bar did. The jukebox played on, Reba singing to a silent room about being Fancy. The air went out like an untied balloon, everyone discovered their own business again, and Spike pulled the cloth wrapped bundle to the edge of the table. "This it, then? "

Sawyer shrugged. "I don't even know what it is. Just making the delivery."

"Well, aren't we all so trusting?" Spike snarled. "Honor among thieves. I am out of place." He reached over and stole a single out of Sawyer's pack, then pulled a heavy envelope and a lighter out of his jacket. He tossed the envelope to Sawyer.

"Just the coat marks you as not from around here." Sawyer grabbed the envelope and stood. He had no reason to hang around and, now that the guy on the floor was starting to moan, a whole table full of reasons to leave. He crossed the room at a saunter, not surprised that Spike was behind him.

The air hit like a sponge full of lukewarm dishwater heavy with diesel and dust. Spike's hand hit harder as Sawyer was yanked out of the pool of light by the door and shoved around the corner toward the cinderblock wall of the neighboring garage. Moments later, the door slammed open and a handful of drunks piled into a battered F150 and spat gravel chasing a set of taillights down the interstate.

Spike huffed a laugh.

Sawyer lit another cigarette and asked, "What?"

"What's the name for the set of lights on top of the constabulary?"

"The lights? You mean the rack?"

"That's the same as a bird's tits?"

"Well, yeah."

"We should have killed you when Webster declared independence by defiling the language."

"Webster who?"

"C'mon." Spike shoved him past the metal bay doors of the garage, further away from the bar and his own rental in the bar's parking lot.

"What d'ya need me for? I thought you were wanting a fight."

"Decided I wanted something else, didn't I? That's me, the very picture of a capricious sprite."

"Fuck, American and English really are two different languages, ain't they?"

"Shut up." Spike stomped to a DeSoto, sitting nearly invisible in the shadows of the far side of the garage. He threw the cloth wrapped bundle through the open window and grabbed Sawyer's wrist.

Now, he was not a small man, not some pencil pushing pansy and sure he could hold his own, but when Sawyer tried to pull his wrist free, Spike was having none of it and damn if he didn't just smile. So Sawyer tried the smile, that smile, the one that always worked and Spike cocked one dark eyebrow, a smudge of dark against his face, and Sawyer wouldn't even have been able to see it if Spike hadn't been so pale, and standing way too close.

Nice to know that the smile worked on everyone and what the fuck and Sawyer leaned forward to grind his jeans against the side of Spike's coat. It'd been a good three days, and who was he to turn down what he just knew was being offered. Yeah, he was right, Spike's smile got bigger and a little nasty on the edges and oh there he was, grabbing Sawyer's other hand and pulling his arms down against the truck of the DeSoto, laying him out like a picnic lunch. He felt the edge of his t-shirt rise as he bent backward and tried to keep his feet on the gravel and as he felt the edge of tooth against his neck, he just couldn't shut up. "I have got to drag my ass overseas. Here I thought lagniappe was just a French thing."

"Lagniappe?"

"Yeah. You don't have to quit. I'm just thinking that Harris is going to find it a lot easier to get a delivery boy next time… hey, why'd ya stop?"

"I'm thinking of reasons why Harris would need another de …" Spike glared through the black paint as though he could see into the car. Sawyer wedged his thigh between Spike's but the leather pants were more concealing than they looked. He tried to take charge, to pull Spike to the hood but damn if the guy, for all his skinny ass, didn't seem set in cement. But his wiggling around at least caught Spike's attention again and he smiled, eyes strangely yellow in the dark and stroked one hand up, soft as a woman's, pulled Sawyer's t-shirt up, baring his belly to the night.

The wet air carried sound further than it should and Sawyer could hear a flurry of twanging guitar from the bar as Spike popped the waistband of his jeans. And damn if the July air wasn't so wet and muggy that Spike's hand felt dry and cool against his dick. He let his head fall back against the deSoto and closed his eyes to concentrate before figuring that even if he wasn't a gentleman, he was still enough of a man that he wasn't going to sit back and have all the fun. He pushed back with a grin, gave the side of Spike's neck a nip of its own in trade and thumbed open Spike's fly and hunh, must have been not paying attention earlier, because oh yeah, there was the Englishman's cock, pressing against the zip from the inside and wanting to play. Sawyer gave Spike a quick squeeze through the leather, big hands had their uses, and slid the zip down carefully because arrogant pricks in leather coats in Georgia in July went commando and yeah, he knew, just knew it, and Spike's cock jumped into his hand. He must have felt feverish hot, cause Spike's dick was cool in his hand and he gave it a pull and a rub and was rewarded by twist and a pull on his own and yeah, nothing at all like beating off, this wasn't, and never was. Nothing at all, not anymore than you can tickle yourself. And damn, it'd been years since he'd had a foreskin to play with, but oh yeah, he knew what to do with it, sliding in double time and he felt Spike gasp, too soft to hear and Sawyer grinned harder.

Spike propped one elbow up by Sawyer's head and Saywer could smell the leather and his own sweat and something like the incense at the flea markets before his balls reached up behind his eyes and turned his brain off and made the night a little warmer and a little colder and for a second, not quite so Georgia. He grunted and realized his hand has loosened but didn't have time to do anything about it, as Spike knocked his wrist away and slid his own cock between Sawyer's thighs, high up, sliding his shaft behind Sawyer's balls and he felt his shoes being knocked together with a scattering of gravel and it was almost painful and almost girly and he was still loose enough from coming that he really didn't care and Spike leaned over him, and bit down, hard, on his neck and shit that was gonna leave a mark if it didn't draw blood even and he couldn't push up, couldn't push Spike away because he was enclosed in a cage of wire and leather and Spike said something, no telling what, muffled in the side of his neck. Sawyer lay there and thought about scratching his butt while Spike flattened him against the trunk. A rattle of gravel announced another exit from the bar. Spike draw his face away from the DeSoto, sliding his own smooth chin against Sawyer's stubble and grinning sharply.

"Fuck man. Asshole." Sawyer rubbed his neck.

"It'll heal."

"Not the point." Saywer pushed off the trunk and yeah, Spike had come all over the back of the car. He knew some greasers who he'd swore jacked off on their rides, but he'd never helped before and he fastened his jeans under the clingy wet of his shirt.

And damn if Spike wasn't all English, cool and untouched, and Sawyer smelled his own sweat and spunk and he felt flushed and more pissed off than any man who'd just gotten a handjob in the greasy parking lot of a two bit hick garage had a right to. He rubbed at his neck and swore again. Blood and not a little, either, a smear against his palm.

"Fuckin' psycho," he snarled. Spike lit a cigarette and looked at the ground. The envelope had fallen, when he'd dropped his pants, most like, and Sawyer grabbed it off the ground with a growl. Harris'd have his balls if he lost the money and he was tired of hearing how he thought with his dick. Spike just leaned on the roof of the DeSoto and blew smoke into the air and Sawyer trudged back to his own car, his own life, and his cut of Harris' goddamn deal.

"Asshole," he muttered again and there was no way Spike could have heard him, but he laughed just then anyway, then the DeSoto roared to life with a choke and a growl of its own.


End file.
